


The Weight of Choice

by Cleo the Muse (cleothemuse)



Series: Grampa Steve's Bedtime Stories [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, But Kind of Is Anyway, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen, Irish Catholicism, Irish Sarah Rogers, Not A Fix-It, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Somewhat Sort-Of Kinda Abused But Not Really, Time Travel, it's complicated - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-16 20:41:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19325716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleothemuse/pseuds/Cleo%20the%20Muse
Summary: Morgan doesn't like it when she has to choose between two things when theobvioussolution isboth. Fortunately, she has a great big family that makes decision-making easier.Captain Steve sets off into the Multiverse with Mjolnir and the Infinity Stones, and right away finds that no matter how much he'd like to, there are some things hecan'tfix.But there are some things hecan.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story uses my personal custom work skin for some simple formatting shortcuts, and should not interfere with any accessibility accommodations you may have enabled. However, if you find the formatting in some areas seems a bit off to you or if it is interfering with your accessibility, please drop me a line @cleothemuse on Twitter.

Iron Man was supposed to be intimidating, not “cute”, but the square eyes set in the oversized head made the plushie look nothing short of adorable and squishy, and Morgan _had_ to have one. Trouble was, she was allowed only one plushie, and the stuffed gray kitten that had first caught her eye was still as tempting as ever.

“Can’t I get _both?_ ” she asked, trying not to sound like she was whining but knowing from the way Grampa Steve clenched his jaw that she’d failed at that.

“You know the rule,” he replied, “and you know it’s not a bend-or-break kind of rule, either.”

“But I have enough money for _both_ ,” she protested.

“You have enough money for _the whole store_ ,” Grampa Steve corrected, “but that’s not the point, young lady, and you know it.”

Morgan let out a Board Sigh. The “point”, she knew, was that she was supposed to Make Good Choices and also to Appreciate What She Had. But it was a stupid rule and a stupid point because she absolutely appreciated everything she had and being forced to limit herself to buying only one new toy per month was, she had argued before, a False Choice because there was a perfectly legitimate solution that she wasn’t being allowed.

Namely, buying _all the toys_.

Grampa Steve glanced at his watch. “We have ninety minutes left and we’ll need at least fifty of that just for the subway.” He crouched next to her. “Okay, Little Bug, objective analysis. Pros and cons: go.”

“Her fur is very soft,” she began, eyeing the toy in her arms. “Stitches are small, so she’s well-made.” She gave the kitten an experimental squeeze. “She’s not very squishy, and her whiskers look very real but might be scratchy when I cuddle her.”

Grampa Steve held out the hand not currently holding his cane. She obediently put the kitten into his grip, then stood on tiptoes to pull the Iron Man plushie off the shelf by one of his shiny boots. Turning him over in her hands, she assessed the doll critically. “Small stitches here, too. Fabric is shiny and not as soft as the kitty’s fur, but he’s very squishy. No scratchy bits other than the tag, and that can be easily cut off.”

“Subjective?”

Morgan pointed to the kitten. “She’s very cute and cuddly, and she reminds me of Scrappy the Bodega Cat.” She looked down at the doll in her arms. “He’s also very cute, and not all squinty-eyed or frowny-faced like most of the Iron Man toys. He reminds me of Daddy, not just ‘cause Iron Man but ‘cause when I look at him, he makes me smile.”

Grampa Steve was wearing the same warm-but-sad expression he always did when she talked about Daddy. “Conclusion?”

She looked between the two toys again, then gave the kitty a pat on the head. “I want the kitty, but I’d rather have a real one. With the Iron Man plushie, I can _technically_ give Daddy a hug whenever I want.”

Grampa Steve’s mouth opened like he was going to say something, but he didn’t. Given the sad puppy look on his face, Morgan had no choice but to wrap her arms around his neck and give him a hug.

“See? He’s very good for hugs,” she declared, smooshing the Iron Man doll against Grampa Steve’s neck.

“Oh, yes, very good,” he agreed, giving her a squeeze with his warm arms. “Okay, sweetheart, let’s put the kitty away and go pay for Iron Dad there.”

Morgan giggled. “ _Iron Dad_.”

Grampa Steve stood back up and stepped sideways to put the kitten back on the shelf. Morgan followed his movement, but as she turned her head, a glint of purple and gold caught her eye.

“Oooh, they have a Rescue plushie, too!”

It was his turn for a Board Sigh. “Morgan…”

“Ihavetherealthingathome,” she amended quickly.

One hour and fifteen minutes later, the two of them were stepping off the elevator into the penthouse apartment, a term which had once confused Morgan to no end because it wasn’t shaped like a pentagon _at all_. Delicious smells wafted from the kitchen, and if she leaned _just so_ she could see Uncle Happy in the kitchen, turning something on the grill plate.

“Cheeseburgers?” she gasped.

“Cheeseburgers!” Uncle Happy confirmed. “Also potato wedges and grilled asparagus, so I hope you brought your appetites.”

“ _Always_ ,” Grampa Steve promised. “I may not be able to pack it away quite like I used to, but chasing this little imp all over Prospect Park all day will work up an appetite on _anybody_.”

“Did you have fun today, sweetie?” asked Mommy, walking into the kitchen in one of her business suits but with her hair down and her feet bare.

“ _Always_ ,” Morgan answered, echoing her Grampa Steve. She gave Mommy a big hug, then dug into her backpack for Iron Dad. “We watched a softball game and climbed trees and rode the carousel and went to the zoo to watch the sea lions train!”

Mommy smiled, stroking her hand through Morgan’s wild hair and smoothing it away from her face. “Sounds like you and Grampa Steve had a _very_ busy day. And who’s your little friend here?”

“This is Iron Dad: he gives good hugs. His hugs are so good, he can even make Grampa Steve stop looking like a sad puppy!”

Mommy laughed and stood back up. “Grampa Steve’s sad puppy look is pretty powerful. Iron Dad must be a _very_ good hugger if he can dispel those.”

“The sad puppy look doesn’t stand a chance with a regular Morgan hug, let alone one with both Morgan _and_ Iron Dad,” Grampa Steve smiled. “All right, Little Bug, put away your stuff, wash your hands, and help me set the table.”

While they ate, they talked about everyone’s week. Uncle Happy’s cooking classes were coming to a close soon, but he’d already signed up for the advanced course that started a few weeks later. Mommy’s charity gala that evening was a fundraiser for Petey and Ned’s school, and next week the college interns—including Harley, of course—would be starting orientation at Mommy’s work.

Grampa Steve announced his new book proposal had been accepted, and he would soon be writing and illustrating a story about movement and expression. He said he was looking forward to Morgan starting dance lessons in a few weeks so he could come to her classes and make a bunch of sketches, which got Morgan excited at the promise of adding another “Steven R. Carter” book to her bookshelf. While _Captain Steve’s Adventures_ were stories just for her, she really liked that he was sharing some of his other bedtime stories with kids all around the world.

And speaking of bedtime: once she’d finished helping Mommy clear the table, it was off to “bath and brush”. Afterward, when she was carefully poking Jabber’s soil to make sure the cactus had the right amount of water, Mommy came into her room looking elegant and sparkly. Morgan gave her a good night kiss and a hug from both her and Iron Dad, then Mommy left with Uncle Happy for the charity ball. Grampa Steve handed her Daddy’s picture for a kiss, and then he turned off the bedside lamp so Miss Friday could turn on the night sky.

*       *       *

“...And remember: you have to return all the Stones to the exact moment you got them or you’re going to open up a bunch of nasty alternative realities,“ Bruce finished, his recitation of the mission goals doing nothing to conceal how nervous he was about being so close to all six Infinity Stones again. His right arm was tucked into its usual sling while his body slowly healed from the damage the Stones had done, but it looked to Steve as though Bruce was holding the wounded limb to his side even more carefully than usual.

Even so, he used his good hand to open the bismuth-lined case to show Steve that the retrieval system Shuri had designed to work with the nanosuit had been tucked into the case, and all six Stones were loaded and ready to go. The liner had proven it dampened the energy signatures of the Infinity Stones contained therein enough to fool most scans, but it wasn’t as effective against stronger close-range scans.

“Don’t worry, Bruce,” Steve replied, closing and latching the case before activating the biometric seals. “I’ll clip all the branches.”

“You know I tried…” Bruce began, still staring at the case in reflection. “When I had the gauntlet, the Stones, I-I really tried to bring her back. I miss her, man.”

Steve felt his heart sink. “Me too,” he admitted. The last time he saw Natasha, she was smiling genuinely, excited and optimistic for the adventure they were all about to embark on, and even joking a little. “ _See you in a minute_ ,” she’d said to Steve, but she was the only one who didn’t return: the price they all paid for the Soul Stone, though none had paid it as heavily as Clint.

—

“How much? I’d give Uncle Clint money if he needed it.”

“That’s really sweet of you, Little Bug, but it wasn’t that kind of price.”

—

Pushing away those thoughts, he turned toward the quantum gateway, which Pym’s worker ants had carried out to the lakeside edge of the trailer complex this morning. Sam had been standing on Steve’s left—he couldn’t resist the opportunity, apparently—and fell in beside him as Steve started toward the launch platform. “You know, if you want, I could come with you,” he offered.

Steve stopped, smiling at the offer that unintentionally echoed the same plea Bucky had made only the night before. While he and Bucky had decades of history together, he’d actually known Sam for less than _one_ decade, and that included the last five years. Despite the relative brevity of their friendship, Sam had proven himself to be one of the most level-headed and reliable people Steve had ever known, and if there was anyone else on Earth Mjolnir was likely to let pick her up, it would probably be Sam.

The idea of passing the Captain America mantle on to someone else had mostly been an abstract idea when he and Bucky talked last night, but the more he’d mulled it over in his mind, the more the idea solidified. Now, seeing Sam’s earnest expression as he pledged himself to once again follow Steve’s lead regardless of any dangers involved, he knew Sam was the right person for the job: not a perfect soldier, but...

“You’re a good man, Sam,” he replied. “This one’s on me, though.”

Bucky had been lurking next to the launch platform, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, but Steve caught the brief smile that crossed his face at the subtle nod to their conversation the previous evening. The flicker of good humor faded quickly, and when Steve stopped in front of him, he looked up, expression worried. To anyone else, he might have seemed detached or bored, but the crease between his eyebrows told Steve so much more than could have easily been conveyed by words alone: concern for the upcoming mission, regret that he wasn’t coming along, and even a small amount of fear.

Fortunately, those decades of shared blood, sweat, and tears also brought with them a few simple phrases that could mean far more than their substance would otherwise imply. “Don’t do anything stupid until I get back,” Steve said aloud. _Take care of yourself. Keep an eye on things for me. Don’t worry: I’m coming back._

A relieved smile crossed Bucky’s face. “How can I?” he responded in the only way he could. “You’re taking all the stupid with you.” _Take care of yourself. I’m going to miss you while you’re gone. Hurry back soon or I’ll come looking for you._

They embraced with quick, one-armed hugs, neither willing to let it linger because letting go would be that much harder if they did. Bucky took a few steps back, eyes sweeping over Steve as though memorizing how he looked. “Gonna miss you, buddy,” he whispered.

That quiet admission almost broke Steve’s resolve to set out on this mission alone. “It’s going to be okay, Buck,” he declared as much for himself. From the smirk that crossed Bucky’s face, he had heard another phrase entirely: _I can do this all day_. Steve’s mantra from when he was small and frail, he’d used that line countless times both before and after he’d received Erskine’s serum, uttering it to taunt enemies and bolster himself alike.

He _could_ do this. He _would_ succeed not only in returning the Stones, but in helping those other realities to avoid the same overwhelming tragedies his own had suffered due to Thanos. He _would_ return and then he’d retire from trying to save the world and instead do something that was entirely selfish for a change. Go back to drawing and painting. Take up golfing or fishing, maybe. Write a book. Build a house in the middle of nowhere with his own bare hands. _Live_.

Turning around, he stepped up onto the launch platform as Bruce began the warm-up sequence and the gateway’s Pym Particle projection pylons whined to life around him. Tapping the navigator on the back of his left hand, he triggered the nanosuit to engage and cover his uniform as Sam asked about the duration of the mission.

“For him: as long as he needs;” Bruce answered. “For us: five seconds.”

Ignoring the worried expressions on his friends’ faces—Bucky and Sam hadn’t witnessed the development or use of the quantum gateway’s predecessor, after all—Steve bent over to pick up Mjolnir.

“Ready Cap?” Bruce asked, and Steve looked over his shoulder to nod. “All right, we’ll meet you back here.”

“You bet,” he agreed absently, turning away again and tapping his left thumb against the side of his index finger knuckle twice to engage the suit’s helmet. Tipping his head downward to meet Bucky’s gaze, he silently promised again, _I_ will _be back_.

Bruce’s countdown ended, and the forest next to the Compound’s lake loomed suddenly massive and distant before whiting out as Steve himself rapidly shrank down into the quantum realm. Logically, he knew that much of what he perceived of the journey was a trick of his mind attempting to process what his senses were taking in, but if it _was_ all in his subconscious, then at least deep down he found it exhilarating and beautiful.

Scott had described the quantum realm differently than how Steve had seen it, as had Doctors van Dyne and Pym. Of course, their excursions had been without benefit of Tony’s navigator technology, which no doubt explained why Steve’s mind interpreted the transition to the quantum realm and back again as being a fast plummet through a tunnel of light more than the gentle free-falling or floating sensation the others had described.

Perhaps the only unsettling part of the trip was the effect it had on his internal clock. Under most circumstances, he had an uncanny sense of the passage of time: both in the war and after waking up from the ice, he’d been able to accurately carry out his part in precisely-timed mission objectives without having to consult a watch. It had both infuriated and amused teammates in both eras, and the Howlies often joked that they set their watches to Rogers Standard Time.

From the moment he was catapulted from the launch platform in October of 2023 to the moment his boots landed in the beta reality’s August of 2014, the trip took both several hours and only a fraction of a second. The HUD in the suit’s helmet had its own chronometer, but it likewise registered that virtually no time at all had passed for him.

—

“Ooh, I know this!” Morgan exclaimed.

“You do?”

“Uh-huh. Daddy used to say it had to do with relatives: the more dense the relatives around you are, the longer time takes to pass!”

Grampa Steve coughed. “That’s… that’s not what ‘relativity’ means, Little Bug.”

“It’s not?”

“Though you’re not entirely _wrong…_ ”

—

Steve’s exit point from the quantum realm was within his recently-vacated apartment in Washington D.C. His counterpart from this time was most likely in New York as Steve himself had been on this day in his own history, accepting the offer of temporary housing from Tony even as he guiltily failed to disclose Zola’s not-so-subtle hints about the role a particular brainwashed assassin may have played in a certain early-90s car crash. Sharon still had the apartment across the hall, but at this time of day, she was across the river in Langley, stubbornly opting to prove herself to the CIA on her own merits without invoking her famous great-aunt or making use of the character references Steve and Natasha had both promised her.

With the lease on Steve’s old apartment still valid until the end of September, it was a nice, private staging ground for the first phase of his mission. “Cebisa, are you with me?” he asked, setting Mjolnir on the kitchen counter.

“I am,” the AI responded, her voice accented much like Shuri’s. As though the brilliant young woman hadn’t had _enough_ to do in the last several weeks, she’d modified a copy of Friday’s kernel with algorithms adapted from her own virtual assistant, Griot, and built from that base a relatively rudimentary AI interface for the nanosuit. Unlike her predecessors, Cebisa didn’t have remote servers, which drastically limited her processing power and knowledgebase, but her primary purpose was to make the suit and its related functions easier to operate.

“Systems check.”

Diagnostic tests scrolled rapidly across his HUD. “All systems normal.”

“Begin ISRS integration,” he ordered, pressing the Stones case against his left hip.

Immediately, a tiny portion of his ample supply of Pym Particles was used to shrink the case and its contents to a size small enough to fit into one of the belt pouches on his uniform underneath the nanosuit. A tunnel of nanites threaded into the pouch and plugged into the recall port, providing a conduit for near-instant access of each Stone. Color indicators appeared on his HUD, showing that all six Infinity Stones were currently available.

“Infinity Stone Retrieval System integration complete,” Cebisa reported.

Left hand now empty, Steve turned his wrist so that his palm was up, curling his thumb and fingers close together as though holding something small between them. “Retrieve Space Stone.”

The blue icon winked out on his HUD. A bright blue streak raced up his flank and down his arm, and the requested Infinity Stone appeared in his hand as though by magic. As the line it traced had indicated, the Stone had actually been rapidly moved by nanites down his arm and then restored to its original size once it reached his gloved fingertips.

Picking up Mjolnir again, he pressed the Stone to the triquetra adorning the side of the hammer, willing the two to fuse. The knotwork flared with cold blue light, and when he moved his left hand away, the Stone remained affixed to Mjolnir’s side.

“Cebisa, engage cloak.” His own hand shimmered and became invisible, though the HUD provided a polygon mesh overlay of sensor positions from the nanosuit itself so that he could “see” where his own limbs were. 

Mjolnir, however, did _not_ vanish. He frowned at that, as a glowing blue hammer seemingly floating in the air on its own was hardly “stealthy”. “Extend nanite mesh to cover Mjolnir.”

“Unable to comply,” Cebisa answered.

“Why not? We did this in practice yesterday.”

“Prior tests of the retroreflection matrix base and mesh extension modes were done without an Infinity Stone integrated into Mjolnir. The retroreflection matrix is incompatible with the energy signature of an Infinity Stone. Without a suitable heavy metal dampening barrier, masking an Infinity Stone’s signature would require greater power levels than are available in this suit, and would render the suit _highly_ visible to EM scans.”

—

“Why didn’t they make some nanites out of heavy metals?”

Grampa Steve shrugged. “Why don’t you ask Shuri or Harley the next time you see them?”

—

He sighed, dropping his head. “Disengage cloak. Activate alternate configuration seventeen.” As he watched, all of the nanosuit’s bright white surfaces darkened to a matte black, and the red trim shifted hue to a deep blue. He knew from prior testing that the helmet’s shape changed as well, becoming something of a hybrid between the Iron Man helmet and the Black Panther mask. It covered his features entirely, making him about as anonymous as he could get.

Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly, then cleared his mind to focus on his destination: Morag. Specifically, he wanted to arrive right outside of the temple’s inner sanctum, just in case Nebula had misjudged the amount of time she lay paralyzed—unlikely, given her cybernetics—and was already awake inside. Rhodes, on the other hand, should have left the timeline already.

Mjolnir glowed brighter, and a dark blue cloud enveloped him briefly. When it cleared, Steve found himself exactly where he’d hoped to be: just outside of the room where the Power Stone had been hidden for over a thousand years.

Quickly, he pushed his fingertips to the Space Stone, willing it to separate from Mjolnir. When the blue gem came free in his grasp, he wrapped his fist around it and ordered Cibesa to store it. As soon as the blue dot re-appeared on his HUD, he had the nanite mesh extended around Mjolnir and the stealth systems engaged.

Finally invisible, he peered around the edge of the door, wincing when he saw Nebula lying on her side, a beam of light shining from her ocular node and casting a volumetric projection on the floor. The image was of Thanos—the alpha timeline’s Thanos—in his last moments, gloating about his victory.

Steve’s stomach churned. If he moved now, he could manually trigger the recall on Nebula’s navigator and send her back to their originating timeline. He’d be saving her from the torture she’d soon endure at the hands of the beta reality’s Thanos and Nebula. He knew only a little of her past, but he knew she’d been abused and manipulated by Thanos almost her entire life. She’d suffered enough.

And, if he intervened now, beta-Thanos wouldn’t have the means to travel to the alpha timeline. No beta-Thanos meant no attack on the Compound, which would mean…

It would mean a paradox, and Doctor Strange had been _very_ specific in warning Steve about interfering with his own timeline. In fact, he’d explicitly stated _twice_ that Steve could not do anything to save Nebula without jeopardizing the fates of more than one reality.

Steve swore softly, resting his forehead against the sanctum wall. He hated it when his only available choices were _both_ terrible.

*       *       *

“Did Captain Steve save Aunt Nebula anyway?” Morgan asked, jaw cracking with a huge yawn.

“No, he didn’t,” Grampa Steve replied, briefly making another sad puppy face. “He didn’t have a choice, really. But Aunt Nebula was eventually rescued by the version of her sister from that reality, and the two of them fought side-by-side against the bad guys.”

Morgan yawned again, pulling Iron Dad close against her face and rubbing her cheek against the shiny fabric. “Must be nice. Maybe Mommy will let _me_ have a sister some time.”

Grampa Steve chuckled, rising from his chair to softly kiss Morgan’s forehead. “You’d better stick to asking for a puppy or a kitten, Little Bug.”


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning was a Sunday morning, which usually meant brunch with any family in town that week, or flying out to the Barton farm. This week was a Barton family week, which meant instead of dressing up nice to go to a restaurant, Morgan got to put on her play clothes.

“Let’s go, let’s go!” she exclaimed, bursting from her room.

“Shoes,” Grampa Steve reminded her, not even looking up from his newspaper.

She stopped and looked down, surprised to see her feet were bare. “Do I have to?”

“Yes,” Mommy replied, frowning at her phone while she tapped on it with her thumbs. “Socks first.”

“Okay,” Morgan agreed, shoulders drooping as she turned back to the bedroom.

“Wear your old sneakers,” Mommy called from the kitchen. “And bring me your brush and a band so I can put your hair up.”

“Where—”

“Vanity. Upper drawer.”

Socks and shoes donned, Morgan opened the indicated drawer in the bathroom, conking herself on the forehead when she remembered that that was where her hair stuff was _always_ kept. Grabbing her brush and a sparkly purple stretchy band she knew Uncle Clint wouldn’t be able to resist admiring, she trotted into the kitchen and hauled herself up on one of the stools.

Mommy laid her phone down, but it kept chiming while she brushed out Morgan’s hair. While she worked, Grampa Steve put down his paper, dropped a slice of bread into the toaster, and poured a small glass of milk. When the high ponytail was finished, Mommy handed the brush to Morgan with a reminder to put it back in the bathroom cabinet, then picked up her phone again.

Hairbrush successfully stowed, Morgan returned to her stool, grinning when Grampa Steve placed the milk and cross-cut toast in front of her. “Pre-game!” they exclaimed together.

“Yuh nah pwe-ganin?” she asked around a mouthful of blackberry jam.

“Friday, can you translate that?” Grampa Steve asked.

“I’m afraid not, Mister Carter,” the AI replied, “Mouthfullian is beyond my capabilities to translate.”

Morgan giggled into her milk, making a small mess. Grampa Steve handed over a damp dishcloth, which she used to wipe up where her drink had splattered. “I said ‘you’re not pre-gaming?’”

“Already did: grabbed a bagel and a coffee on my way over this morning.”

“You didn’t stay the night?”

“Nope, your mom got home well before midnight.”

“Because if she’d stayed any longer, Uncle Happy’s car would’ve turned into a pumpkin?”

“Because if I’d stayed any longer, I might have strangled someone with my bare hands,” Mommy answered, putting her phone down on the kitchen counter and scrubbing her hands over her face. “I won’t bore either of you with the details, but I’m going to need to spend a little time this morning forcing a bunch of idiots to fix their mess before the Asian markets open. We _already_ took a small hit in the Middle East markets.”

Morgan stuck out her lower lip. “We’re not gonna make it to brunch?” 

Mommy leaned in and kissed her forehead. “You and Grampa Steve go ahead; as soon as I can, I’ll grab my suit and meet you there.”

“Motivate them to fix their mess faster: take your _suit_ to the office,” Grampa Steve joked.

“Don’t tempt me, Steve!” Mommy replied with a small huff of laughter. “But I can inform them I’m missing family brunch and then start slowly naming a few of the more-recognizable members...”

“That’ll do,” he agreed with a chuckle, then glanced at his watch. “All right, I’m going to head up and start the pre-flights and what-not.”

Mommy rolled her eyes. “You _know_ Friday can do most of that.”

“Yeah, but I _like_ it; it makes me feel useful,” he replied, picking his cane up with one hand and tossing it lightly to the other before disappearing down the hall, headed for the roof.

“Ah-ah! Take your time,” Mommy warned, catching Morgan cramming her second toast wedge into her mouth. “Grampa Steve won’t leave without you.”

“Aw oo shuh—” Morgan paused, finished swallowing her toast, and tried again. “Are you sure you’re gonna make it to brunch?”

Mommy wrapped her arms around Morgan’s shoulders. “I wouldn’t miss it, even if I have to fly right back out again afterward to finish up. I actually have had _dreams_ about your Aunt Laura’s buttermilk biscuits.”

“ _So good_ ,” Morgan agreed, taking another chomp of her now-inadequate-by-comparison toast.

Grampa Steve returned right as she was gulping down the last of her milk. “Flight plan’s laid in, though of course we’re not going to _land_ when we get to Cedar Rapids. You ready to go, Little Bug?”

Without needing to be told—because she was _responsible_ —Morgan put her plate and glass in the dishwasher. “Ready!”

“See you in a few hours,” Mommy promised, giving Morgan a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t let anyone eat all the biscuits before I get there!”

Taking Grampa Steve’s hand, the pair walked up the single flight of stairs to the roof—because Grampa Steve never took an elevator if he didn’t have to—and walked past Mommy’s greenhouse to the landing pad. The family Starkjet was waiting, repulsor engines humming on stand-by. The wind was tugging Morgan’s ponytail around, making her glad Mommy’d tied it back for her so it wasn’t in her eyes.

As they walked up the ramp into the jet, Grampa Steve asked, “Want to sit in the cockpit?”

Morgan grinned. “Can I be the co-pilot?”

“Well, Friday’s going to do the actual flying, so we can _both_ pretend.” He shrugged. “The FAA kinda prefers it if a licensed pilot is behind the controls, so I gotta hang out up front for a bit anyway.”

He’d flown with them before, but she never thought of that as being the reason why he spent the first and last several minutes of each trip in the cockpit instead of in the cabin with her and Mommy and whoever else was along that day. She’d always just thought it was another Grampa Steve Thing like the way he wore an old-fashioned watch instead of checking his phone or asking Friday for the time, or how he often stopped to pick up and throw away litter when they went for walks.

“You’re a licensed pilot, Grampa Steve?” 

“Sure am,” he answered, ducking through the cockpit door and sliding into the pilot’s seat. “I was so good at crashing ‘em, I figured I ought to learn how to fly ‘em, too.”

Morgan giggled, climbing up into the co-pilot’s seat and sitting down. “You’re silly, Grampa Steve.”

“I’ve been accused of that a time or two,” he smiled, patting her knee. “Okay, strap in, Little Bug—lap belt only for now—and then keep quiet for a bit: don’t want the air traffic controllers thinking I have a five year-old for a co-pilot.”

She giggled again, slapping her hands over her mouth as the noise escaped.

Fifteen minutes later, they were airborne and Friday was in control, so Grampa Steve was able to slip off the headset and lean back in his chair.

“So… we have about two hours to kill. Want to hear more of _Captain Steve’s Adventures_?”

A grin spread across her face. “Does Mommy love Aunt Laura’s buttermilk biscuits?”

*       *       *

After an agonizing amount of time—though his internal clock _and_ HUD both agreed it was only a few minutes—the light shut off from inside the sanctum, accompanied by sounds of distress from Nebula. Steve pressed himself back closer to the wall as the assassin sprinted out the door, heading for the _Benatar_ ’s descender pod in a desperate attempt to get a warning out to the rest of the team still in the timeline. Her message wouldn’t get out though: Thanos’ ship was already blocking hyperspace comm frequencies.

Further complicating matters, Steve now couldn’t use any of the Infinity Stones he had on him while the _Sanctuary II_ was in orbit, as Thanos’ henchmen would no doubt detect the energy signature. They wouldn’t remain for long, though, as Thanos would soon take his ship back to the safety of Chitauri space.

“Cebisa, are you able to detect Nebula’s quantum navigator?”

“I am.”

“What sort of range do you have?”

“Given the unique quantum signature the device emits, I am able to track it for approximately 15,000 kilometers.”

—

“Wow! That’s a really long way.”

“It’s about ten times the distance that we’re flying to the Bartons’,” Grampa Steve answered, “but it’s only about a _twenty-fifth_ of the distance from the Earth to the Moon.”

“Oh. Space. Right.”

—

Steve found himself both impressed and disappointed. “So, no way to tell when Thanos’ ship has left?”

“No: my available sensors lack sufficient range to reach even the first of this planet’s Lagrange points with its closest moon.”

He sighed, dropping his head back against the wall again. “So I can’t put the Power Stone back or teleport out of here, which means I’m probably going to still be here when Quill finally wakes up and…” He pushed off the wall, an idea pulling itself together. “Quill came here by ship. Can you access its systems?”

“I’m unable to detect the signature of a Ravager ship anywhere nearby, which may mean it has been hidden and its power profile reduced.”

“Okay, so I guess I’m asking him where it is.”

Steve took off across the temple floor, following Nebula’s path toward the main entrance, leaping across a chasm he only belatedly realized was occupied by large alligator-like reptiles. He found Quill lying next to a half-fallen pillar, which Rhodes said he had broken over in the hopes that Quill—when he awakened—would think he’d just had the misfortune to collide with the column as it fell.

“Great job giving him a concussion, Rhodey,” Steve grumbled to himself, kneeling in the dust next to the fallen space pirate. “Wish I’d thought to pack a first aid kit.”

“Mister Quill has sustained a grade 3 concussion,” Cebisa reported, flashing up a diagram of a human brain with red highlighting indicating the damage. “I have been given the necessary programming and capability to evaluate and treat common injuries both for baseline humans and enhanced individuals such as yourself.”

“You can _treat_ him?”

“With your assistance, of course.”

“Tell me what to do.”

“Disengaging cloak. Place the palm of your hand on the point of injury and hold there even after he awakens.”

Steve did as he was told, watching the HUD diagnostics as the Wakandan-designed biomechanical nanites went to work, doing whatever it was that people far smarter than him had programmed them to do.

Quill began to stir when about forty-percent of the injury yet remained, so Steve activated his external comms. “Easy… take it easy. I’ll have you fixed up in a minute.”

“Thirty seconds,” Cebisa corrected.

“What?” Quill murmured, trying to twist away. “Get off me, man!”

“Lie still,” Steve ordered. Since he needed a hand free anyway, he decided to rest Mjolnir on the man’s chest to keep him pinned to the ground. As Quill fumbled for his belt—no doubt going for a weapon—Steve blocked his movement and let out a noise of exasperation. “Hey, _Star-Lord!_ ”

Quill froze. “You know my name?”

“Yeah.” The HUD flashed to indicate 100% completion, followed by a notice that all of the nanites had been deactivated; they would eventually be metabolized. When Steve moved his hand, the mark on Quill’s forehead was gone. “There you go; all better.”

—

“That would be _great_ to have the next time I scrape my hands climbing a tree!”

“You _could_ wear gloves when you climb.”

“But that’s not as fun!”

—

The would-be “legendary outlaw” rubbed at his forehead. “Wow. Thanks, man.” He attempted to sit up, but Mjolnir’s continued weight on his chest kept him down. “Ow, what the—?”

Grinning beneath his helmet, Steve set Mjolnir aside. “Asgardian tech: good at staying where you put it.”

“You’re an Asgardian? Didn’t think you guys traveled outside your precious ‘Nine Realms’ all that often.”

Realizing that was as good an identity as any, Steve let it slide, holding out his hand to help Quill to his feet. “When the occasion calls for it,” he answered when the other man was finally upright.

“Uh-huh… and what would this occasion be? ‘Cause if you’re here for the same thing I’m here for, buddy: we’re gonna have ourselves a little throw-down.”

“No, I _already_ have what you’re here for, but I’m willing to trade it to you in exchange for your assistance.”

“Wait, you already got the Orb?” Quill backed up. “Whoa, wait, that’s why you knocked me on the head, isn’t it? So you could beat me to it!”

“ _I’m_ not the one who hit you,” Steve replied, shaking his head that Rhodes’ ruse hadn’t worked. “However, I took the—” he stumbled, realizing he didn’t actually have the spherical container with which to return the Power Stone “—Orb from the ones who did and now I’m willing to give it to you in exchange for your help as long as we _move right now_.”

“Nuh-uh, show it to me first.”

“Not here. Thanos’ ship is in orbit, which means we need to get to your ship _now_.”

“ _My_ ship? Where’s your ship? And who is Thanos?”

Steve rolled his eyes, though he knew Quill couldn’t see the expression. “Didn’t bring one with me, and if you don’t know who Thanos is, you don’t _want_ to find out in-person. Seriously: let’s _move_.” Calling Mjolnir to his hand, he started for the temple entrance. Upon turning his back on the other human, though, he was fairly certain the pirate would try something stupid.

Sure enough, there was the soft creak of leather and the quiet slide of a weapon being unholstered, and Steve turned around in time to use Mjolnir to deflect a spidery-looking blue blaster shot. “Really?” he asked, exasperated.

“I had to try,” Quill answered, holstering his weapon. “Cool hammer, bro. Where do I get one?”

“It’s ‘Captain’, and you don’t,” he replied flatly. “You finished screwing around now? Because Thanos’ arrival at least means you don’t have to deal with Ronan’s—”

The sky suddenly darkened, and Steve looked up to see a ship he’d hoped to never see again blotting out the weak sunlight. “There he is,” he sighed, crouching down behind a broken wall.

Quill took cover as well. “Whoa, that’s a big ship. The _Milano_ ’s fast; we can probably outrun—”

A blue beam of light shot out of the ship, but Steve knew it wasn’t aimed at them. “We don’t need to outrun them, just wait them out.”

“Wait them out? Bro—Captain Bro—if they’re here for the Orb—”

Steve gestured upward as the beam of light vanished. “They got who they came for, and they aren’t going to detect the Orb because my suit is shielding it from long-range scans. They should be leaving orbit soon for Chitauri space, but since my suit doesn’t have long-range sensors of its own, I need _your ship_ to find out when they’ve left the system.”

Quill looked him up and down. “Where are you _hiding_ it? I thought it was supposed to be about, you know...” He gestured with his hands, indicating a ball about the size of a grapefruit.

“Magic,” Steve deadpanned. “Can we go now?”

“Yeah, sure. The _Milano_ ’s—” Quill gestured “—that way.”

“Thank you,” Steve sighed, then under his breath added, “I can’t believe you named your ship after a cookie.”

—

“ _I’d_ name a ship after a cookie,” Morgan said. “Behold: the mighty _Starship Oreo_!”

Grampa Steve laughed. “You know, I don’t think your mom’s ever named this jet.”

“Behold: the mighty _Starkship Oreo_!”

—

“What? No, after an actress—wait, how do you know what Milano cookies are?”

“Earth _is_ one of the Nine Realms,” Steve answered. “Did you never learn Norse mythology as a kid?”

“Mythology? No, I was more into movies and comic books,” the other man admitted. “I collected _Justice League_ and _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_ when I could, and my granddad also gave me all his old _Captain America_ comics.”

Steve coughed. “Really? You don’t say.”

“Oh, like you have any idea what I’m talking about.”

He grinned behind the helmet’s faceplate. “You’d be surprised.”

“What, Terran culture’s a thing on Asgard?”

“There’s been recent contact,” Steve replied, which was absolutely true.

“You’re not going to give me a straight answer about _anything_ , are you?”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

Quill stopped when they topped a rise and gestured. “There she is: the _Milano_. I’ll just hop in, check that the skies are clear, and you and I can do our little swap and go our separate ways.”

Steve flicked his gaze quickly to the upper right corner of his HUD, an action which disengaged his external comms. “Cebisa, any unwanted visitors around?”

“There is a single humanoid lifeform in the living quarters of the Ravager vessel: an adult Krylorian female.”

He turned his external comms back on. “Who’s your friend?” The look on Quill’s face was of such genuine confusion that Steve wondered if maybe he had a stowaway. “My sensors are picking up a Krylorian woman on your ship.”

Bewilderment gave way to surprised realization. “Oh, crap... I forgot she was here.”

“She gonna be a problem?”

“Her? Nah. She’s an _artist_ , currently fascinated by all things Terran which—” Quill gestured to himself “—I’m pretty much the _prime_ example of.”

“She any good?” Quickly, he held out his hand halting what was no doubt going to be a lewd response. “Her art, I mean: is her _art_ any good?”

“I dunno,” Quill replied, tapping a panel on his button that caused the ship’s canopy to open. “I didn’t hook up with her for her _art_.”

Steve let that one go. For now. “Cebisa, can you access the _Milano_ ’s systems?” he asked once he’d disabled external comms again.

“The Ravagers’ ships possess no appreciable firewalls. Shall I gain access and initiate a scan?”

“No; just observe what Quill does so we can make sure he tells the truth.”

—

“Captain Steve didn’t trust Uncle Peter?”

“This wasn’t the same as your Uncle Peter, Little Bug… he didn’t have the Guardians as a family.”

“Oh. That’s sad.”

—

Quill settled into the pilot seat of the _Milano_. “All right, running scans.”

“He’s scanning the temple ruins,” Cebisa reported.

“Understandable,” Steve replied, “he’s making sure I was telling the truth and the Orb he came for is gone.”

“Now he’s scanning _you_ , Captain.”

Quill whistled. “Dude, your suit is giving off some seriously weird energy signatures, you know that?”

“Yes,” Steve answered on the external comm, “but it’s noticeable only at really close-range. Thanos’ ship is _long-range_...?”

“Oh, right. Scanning the skies above.”

“He is.”

“Yep, that’s it: Thanos is gone.”

“He isn’t.”

Steve sighed. “Check again.”

“Still gone,” Quill answered.

“Still there.”

“Quill...”

“What? Dude, I just told you he’s gone—”

“Cebisa, hack his console and change it to a big frowny face.”

“—but if you want you can look yourself and _what the_ —”

—

“Insert ‘colorful expletive’,” Grampa Steve finished.

“Aw, I could handle it, Grampa!”

“Oh yeah? You must be made of tougher stuff than I am, then.”

—

Steve realized his “innocent face” didn’t work behind the helmet’s faceplate, and opted for a casual shrug. “Did something happen?”

“The _Sanctuary II_ has reached an access point and jumped to hyperspace,” Cebisa reported.

“Okay, give him his console back.” He turned the external comms back on. “ _Now_ Thanos has left.”

“What did you do to my ship?!” Quill exclaimed.

“You told me to take a look for myself,” Steve replied.

“That didn’t mean _hijack_ my ship!”

“I only borrowed it a little. It’s not _my_ fault Ravagers don’t believe in cybersecurity.”

Quill’s expression turned sullen. “We don’t usually let dudes with freaky-powerful super suits this close to our ships. Did learn one thing from my scan of you though: it read you as Terran. Was the whole Asgardian schtick just a big lie, or…?”

“I never said _I_ was Asgardian, just this,” Steve answered, hefting Mjolnir. He then placed the fingertips of his left hand a fraction of an inch from Mjolnir’s triquetra carving. “You assumed the rest, and I let you because it was faster than saying, ‘Oh, by the way, I’m from the same little planet as you’.”

Switching comms off again, he called for the retrieval of the Reality Stone. As the red gem expanded at his fingertips, he immediately fused it to Mjolnir, keeping that face of the hammer tilted toward himself so that the gem’s placement wasn’t obvious.

“Whoa, now: why’s the hammer glowing an evil red?”

“Because I’m keeping my promise,” he said to Quill. He took his hand away from Mjolnir and spread his fingers wider apart, grateful to have an eidetic memory as he pictured the container Rhodes had returned with on that last mission. “Cebisa, retrieve the Power Stone.”

As the purple glow raced up his arm, he visualized a metallic sphere of lattice-like structures forming itself around the Power Stone as it expanded, sealing it inside. The Reality Stone flared from its place on Mjolnir’s side as the imagined container spun into being. “How’s it look?”

“An excellent match,” the AI replied. “It is missing the proper points of articulation, however.”

“You mean it won’t open?”

“Correct.”

“Darn,” he deadpanned.

Quill’s eyes were comically wide at the sudden appearance of the Orb. “I seriously thought you were joking when you said ‘magic’.”

“I _was_ ; the real answer partly involves a bunch of quantum physics I’m not exactly qualified to even _try_ to explain.” He held out the Orb. “You want it, or…?”

“Hell, yeah!” Quill agreed, climbing out the ship’s open cockpit window again to take the Orb from Steve’s hand. “Wait… how do I know this is the real thing and not just some weird Asgardian magic-thing?”

“Well, as you pointed out, I’m not Asgardian.” Since there really didn’t seem to be much harm in identifying himself to Quill—he might be a jerk, but he wasn’t about to go running to Thanos and start blabbing about Avengers—he added, “And you’ll know _who_ I am and why you can trust me in just a moment.” He switched off external comms and palmed the Reality Stone, separating it from Mjolnir. “Store Reality Stone, then activate alternate configuration two.”

“Why, are you David Hasselhoff?” the other man joked.

The nanites rolled away, leaving behind only a helmet much like he usually wore, plus an earpiece keeping him connected to Cebisa. Silver trim remained along the sides of his uniform’s torso and down his arms, indicating the continued presence of the ISRS, but the majority of the nanites converged on his left arm, creating a near-perfect replica of his lost shield.

Quill dropped the Orb in surprise. “No freakin’ _way!_ ”

“ _Told you_ you’d be surprised.”

“Nuh-uh, you’d have to be like a hundred or something by now—”

“Something like that.”

“—and didn’t you die in like 1945?”

“I got better.” At Quill’s confused expression, he shook his head, “A pop-culture reference _I_ got that another human didn’t? Wow.”

—

Morgan shrugged. “I don’t get it either.”

“Some of Monty Python’s stuff is a bit out of your age range, Little Bug, but it’s _definitely_ on our to-watch list. We’ll start with ‘The Ministry of Silly Walks’.”

“Ooh, that sounds fun!”

—

Steve cleared his throat. “Anyway, shouldn’t you be going? Thanos has cleared off, but it’s my understanding there’s some other Ravagers on their way...”

“Right!” Quill stooped, retrieved the Orb, and turned back to the _Milano_ before stopping and spinning back. “And you’re saying you’re the _real_ Captain America?”

“Born in 1918 and grew up in the Great Depression,” he confirmed. “Never actually punched the real Hitler, though: that was just the comics and stage shows.”

“Huh. You need a ride? I’m heading to Xandar, but I’m sure you could get a ship from there to Asgard or Earth or wherever.”

“I have a faster way to get around, but thanks. And Quill? Have a little more respect for the ladies, would ya?”

Quill threw a sloppy salute. “Yes sir, Mister Captain America, sir.”

As soon as the cockpit sealed on the _Milano_ , Steve tapped his earpiece. “Retrieve the Space Stone.” With his fingertips no longer covered by the nanosuit, he held his gloved palm over Mjolnir’s side so that the transfer of the Stone to the hammer would again appear to the outside observer as though he was merely activating some feature of the hammer herself and not from another source. He then activated the Space Stone and vanished from Morag.

One Stone down: five to go.


	3. Chapter 3

Vormir was every bit as depressing in this reality as it was in his own, though knowing what this reality’s version had cost him and his team made it far _worse_. The circular platform at the base of the great mountain was mercifully empty, which came as no great surprise: Clint had said he went back to look for Natasha, to bring her home, but she’d apparently been absorbed as part of whatever exchange occurred that left him lying in a shallow pool of water half a mile away, the Soul Stone already in his hand.

He wasn’t entirely sure what to do to return the Soul Stone. Did he leave it here or at the monument at the top of the mountain? As with the Orb which had held the Power Stone for over a millennia, was there a special container or place where the Stone had to be returned? Deciding a little recon wouldn’t hurt, he stowed the Space Stone back in his gear and hung the nanite shield on his back. Then he spun Mjolnir by her strap and threw her—and himself—toward the top of the mountain.

It got cold surprisingly fast. As he flew upward, snow began to blow about in dizzy little swirls that melted and evaporated before they ever reached the moon’s surface, but which pelted the unprotected parts of his face unmercifully as he shot through the air. Just as he was about to have Cebisa change the suit’s configuration to something with a full faceplate, he passed the monument’s summit: a crescent-shaped platform at the base of two huge pillars.

Landing was a matter of calling Mjolnir back to his hand and letting the two of them drop the half-dozen feet to the intricately carved surface. He looked around, noting that a few other pillars lay beyond the large pair; like Morag, they may have been part of a temple complex of some kind centuries ago, but any roof that might have been there must have long since collapsed. Tipping his head back, he stared up at the distant peaks of the twin columns, which seemed to repel the clouds around them. Maybe there was a mechanism up there which—

“Steven, son of Sarah… I never expected to see you again, much less in this place.”

The hair rose on the back of Steve’s neck as he looked toward the familiar though eerily hollow voice. “Schmidt,” he said coolly.

“Once, perhaps,” the Red Skull replied, “but here I am but a shell of what I once was; a Soul Wraith, you might say. And this place, Captain, is not for the likes of you.”

The former HYDRA leader had an ethereal quality about him, exactly as Clint had described, and a weariness that spoke of a duty that seemed without end. He wasn’t quite what Steve was expecting, after the very corporeal remains he’d found on his timeline’s Vormir, but pieces were beginning to fall into place in his mind. It seemed Clint had underestimated how long the _Benatar_ took to make the forty-three jumps necessary to reach Vormir from Morag. 

“How so?” he asked.

Schmidt gestured toward the cliff’s edge. “What you seek lies in front of you, as does what you fear.”

“The Soul Stone,” Steve replied.

“It extracts a terrible price, one which you alone will not be able to pay.” Schmidt’s thin lips twitched into the barest semblance of a smirk. “In our last encounter, I attempted to command an Infinity Stone, but I was found unworthy of such power, and it brought me here. You, I think, are not capable of doing what is necessary to take the Soul Stone from this place.”

Steve’s former nemesis glided over to the edge of the platform, gesturing grandly. “To ensure that whoever possesses it understands its power, the Stone demands a sacrifice: you must lose that which you love. A soul for a Soul.”

—

“What’s that mean?”

“It means that in order for someone to take the Soul Stone, someone that they loved had to die.”

“That’s horrible!”

“Yes it is, Little Bug… yes it is.”

—

“You taunted me that day on the _Valkyrie_ ,” Steve recalled, “something about missing out on the power of the gods to fight a battle of nations.”

“I see you still wear a flag on your chest,” Schmidt observed. “How many years has it been? I cannot keep track of time in this place.”

“Seventy years, give or take.” Steve stepped away from the precipice, resuming his inspection of the massive columns. “And in case you haven’t noticed, I do carry ‘the power of the gods’.” He casually hefted Mjolnir.

Recognition lit in the dead eyes of the Red Skull. “Is that the hammer of Thor?”

“He’s a friend; I’m borrowing it,” Steve replied with just a hint—okay, _more_ than a hint—of smug satisfaction. “That’s something you never understood, Schmidt: it’s not about how _much_ power you possess, but what you do with that power.” He gestured to the monument. “And one of the greatest things a person with power can ever do is to _give up_ that power.”

Realization crossed Schmidt’s leathery face. “You are not here to take the Stone, are you?”

As if heeding the call of some cosmic cue, the _Benatar_ emerged from a low-orbit hyperspace access point and streaked across the dark sky on its way to a safe landing nearby. “No, but _they_ are.”

Schmidt’s thin lips curved into a knowing smile. “You care for them, but you will allow one of them to be killed for your cause. It appears I misjudged you after all, Captain.”

Steve shook his head. “No, you mis _understand_. The fight that will come will not be over who has to be the one to die, but who has to be the one to _live_. One person willingly sacrificing his or her life to save others is one of the most selfless acts of all; the hard part is learning to live with that loss.” Tapping his navigator, he reactivated the nanosuit in its default configuration, nanite shield melting into the back of the suit. “There’s more at stake here than you could possibly comprehend, and this time I can’t be the one to make the sacrifice. All I can do is stand by, witness the outcome, and share in the survivor’s sorrow and guilt.”

He activated his helmet, then the suit’s stealth systems, but since Schmidt appeared to still be able to see him, he suspected the wraith’s connection to the Soul Stone granted him a type of sight that didn’t require eyes.

—

“C- _ree_ -py,” Morgan sang out.

“You got _that_ right.”

—

“You speak as though you can see through time itself,” the Red Skull said.

“More than you know,” Steve answered. Spinning Mjolnir again, he threw himself into the air, aiming for the tops of the pillars. It would be an hour or more before Clint and Natasha could reach the monument’s summit, and he planned to use that time trying to figure out where the Soul Stone belonged so that he could properly return it.

Landing atop one of the columns, he was mildly surprised at the _lack_ of wind at this high of an elevation, though the cloud wall swirling around him reminded him of the eye of a hurricane. “Cebisa, tell me what you can about this monument.”

“Little, I’m afraid. My scanners are unable to penetrate the surface deeply, but I am detecting technology of sufficient complexity that it makes my systems look like an abacus.”

Steve huffed a small breath of laughter. “Any sign of the Soul Stone?” 

“Scanning…”

The HUD remained blank and the AI silent for so long that he grew concerned something had happened. “Cebisa?”

“I am detecting similar energy, but not in a concentrated form,” she responded at last. “Based on available evidence, I suspect the Soul Stone in this timeline has been dispersed. When the Reality Stone was first encountered by Doctor Foster, it was first as an imbued column and then in a gaseous form. Similarly, the Soul Stone here appears to be within these pylons, but also all around us.”

Curiosity getting the better of him, Steve retracted the nanosuit glove covering his left hand, exposing his bare fingers to the frigid air. Extending his hand in front of him, he closed his eyes and concentrated on reaching out with his mind, much in the same way he called to Mjolnir.

He felt surprisingly calm. Peaceful, even, and maybe a little regretful. Expecting something more in line with the malevolent presence within the Mind Stone, he’d deliberately avoided doing more than picking up the Soul Stone in his practices with Strange, subconsciously shying away from contact with something insidious enough to demand the sacrifice of a loved one in order to possess it.

He’d been wrong.

As a child, he was raised in the Irish Catholic tradition: both of his parents were born in Ireland, and he’d grown up in a community full of other immigrants and their children. For most Roman Catholics, the Holy Trinity was the apex of religious worship: God the Father, Jesus the Son, and that unknowable, intangible spark of faith referred to as the Holy Spirit. For the Irish, trinities were especially powerful, reinforced visibly in daily life with emblems like the shamrock or the triquetra, the latter of which had found its way to the Norse and apparently even all the way back to Asgard, if Mjolnir’s design was any indication.

Irish goddesses like Erin, the Morrigan, and Brigid appeared varyingly as maiden, matron, or crone. When the Irish converted to monotheistic Catholicism, the trinitarian goddess was most closely embodied by Mary: virgin bride, mother of Jesus, and grieving widow. Devout Irish Catholics often gravitated to Mary for prayers of intercession, and Sarah Rogers had been no exception.

—

“There’s an Irish goddess named ‘Morgan’?”

“ _The Morrigan_ , Little Bug. She’s an interesting figure: a goddess of war and fate, but also of protection and leadership.”

“She sounds like Captain Steve’s kind of lady!”

—

When Steve got into a fight, she had him say a prayer with her to Mary the Virgin, asking for patience and guidance. Every time Steve was sick—which was often—it was to Mary the Mother that Sarah prayed, begging for strength and protection. At her husband’s funeral and again on her own deathbed, Sarah had prayed to Mary the Widow, seeking peace and forgiveness.

In those moments with his mother, he’d felt the strength of her faith, and though he kept his blasphemous thoughts to himself, he’d often imagined his own mother _as_ Mary: faithful youth, devoted mother, and persevering widow. He always became distinctly uncomfortable with where those thoughts painted _him_ in that scenario, so he never lingered long on the idea.

Connecting with the Soul Stone brought to mind those childhood experiences, that same feeling of awe and respect he’d felt watching his mother kneeling with a bowed head before a small statue of a beautiful woman with a similarly downcast gaze: idealist to idealist, guardian to guardian, mourner to mourner. His communion with the Soul Stone was the closest thing he’d felt to a religious experience in years—decades, really—and it brought him to his knees.

“Captain Rogers, please respond.”

He was startled out of his trance by the AI’s interruption. “Go ahead.”

Cebisa lacked the range of expression her more advanced predecessors possessed, but she still managed to sound relieved. “You’ve been unresponsive for one hour and forty-one minutes.”

Steve blinked, surprised to discover how much time he’d lost. Thanks to the serum, he wasn’t experiencing any muscle fatigue from remaining still for so long. “Clint and Natasha?”

“They’ve been at the summit for thirty-six minutes, but there is now increased activity indicating that something is about to change in their status.”

Before he could order the nanite mesh to glove his hand again, the Soul Stone had another message for him: a memory of Doctor Strange, carefully and cryptically explaining how the Stones operated.

The Soul Stone—optimism, protection, and grief—had shown him the way. Rising to his feet, he leapt from the top of the pylon, arms and legs pinned to his sides to speed his descent. Dozens of feet before hitting the ground, he “threw” Mjolnir to reduce his momentum to a hard landing in the circle at the mountain’s base. Retracting the mesh covering Mjolnir, he tossed her to his still-exposed left hand.“Time Stone _now!_ ”

Green light raced up his otherwise-invisible right arm, and he immediately fused the Stone to the hammer. A glance upward showed both of his friends dangling over the edge of the platform, and he pressed himself against the cliff wall both to reduce Mjolnir’s glow, and to fortify himself for the horror he was now forced to watch.

And watch it he must. “ _The Time Stone,_ ” Strange had warned him, “ _cannot undo anything which it and its bearer did not collectively witness._ ”

There was a sickening thud, a horrible sound Steve hoped never to hear again as long as he lived, and then, mercifully, a flare of light. When the brightness receded, Natasha’s body was gone, and the Soul Stone had fulfilled her bargain to Clint.

“Retrieve the Soul Stone,” he rasped, tears streaming down his face unchecked, “then disengage suit.”

“Direct use of an Infinity Stone is not advised,” the AI warned.

“ _Just do it!_ ” he shouted, locking his knees to keep himself upright.

There was a flare of orange light to his right, then the nanosuit retracted, leaving the Soul Stone in the palm of his fingerless glove. He pushed himself away from the wall, raising both arms. “A soul for a Soul,” he reminded himself as green energy surrounded Mjolnir’s head and writhed around his wrist.

Bright white filled his vision again; the gruesome demise of one of his closest friends returned to his sight but then reversed, her body rising through the air as though in flight. Spinning Mjolnir by her strap, he took to the air as well, reaching Natasha just at the point where she had broken free from Clint’s grasp, and with both his hands occupied, he wrapped his right arm tightly around her waist.

Natasha cried out in alarm, struggling to free herself and fulfill her final mission. “ _No!_ ” she screamed, beating futilely at his arm.

They landed heavily on the platform, the impact allowing Natasha to finally slip out of Steve’s hold as he fell awkwardly to one knee. Her momentum carried her away from the precipice, but she instinctively took control of the roll, coming up in a ready stance, prepared to fight. She froze, then, staring at her arms as they faded to translucent.

By contrast, Schmidt had become much more solid-looking, and instead of the smoky black cloak he’d worn, he was once again clad in his tattered HYDRA uniform. “How?” he demanded, staggering forward.

Steve clenched his jaw. “A Soul for a soul.” Bringing his hand down, he crushed the Soul Stone against the carved surface of the platform.

An orange-tinted shockwave rushed outward, knocking the solid-again Natasha off her feet. Schmidt howled in agony as he was again torn from mortal existence, cursed back to his wraith-like form in service to the Stone. Steve screamed as well, burning from within as the energy of the Infinity Stone raced up his arm and flank.

“Steve, _what did you do?_ ”

He opened his eyes to find Natasha standing over him, fists clenched in anger or fear or maybe even a little of both. “I returned the Stone,” he managed, his voice weakened from strain. Maybe it was just a trick of the light or even brain damage from the _incredibly_ stupid thing he’d just done, but for a moment, he saw _three_ Natashas standing in front of him: the calculating seductress, the peerless assassin, and the steadfast companion. A cool breeze blew over him, sending a shiver down his spine, and he recognized the vision for what it was: a farewell from the Soul Stone.

“Steve, your face… your _hand_...”

He opened his eyes again, not having realized he’d closed them again. Unable to feel his right hand to tell if it was even still attached, he lifted his head with a grunt of exertion and looked at where his hand lay curled into a claw-like shape against his abdomen. His fingers were blackened and looked almost skeletal, and what remained of his glove was smoldering. Even the heat-resistant material of his uniform sleeve was a little tattered and singed looking. He had sensation from the elbow up, but there was no pain, only a tight sensation across his arm and torso like the beginning of a sunburn. From the stretched, tingly feeling along the right side of his neck and face, he figured he’d suffered burns there, too. “It’ll heal,” he answered, then added, “I think.”

“Is that _Thor’s_ hammer?”

He rolled his head to the side, noting Mjolnir lying a few inches from his uninjured hand. “Um… yeah?”

Natasha fell down next to him. “Oh my god, Steve, did we… did we _win?_ ”

“Yeah.” He didn’t like giving only monosyllabic answers, but he didn’t really have the energy to say more.

“What did it cost us?” she asked.

“You,” he answered, “and Tony.”

—

“My Daddy? Captain Steve’s talking about when Daddy died saving the world?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Daddy was very brave.”

“Yes, he was.”

—

Natasha patted his left shoulder in gratitude, head bowing as she breathed a sigh of relief. “The Stone… the Red Skull... he said that what I was going to… that what I _did_ was _permanent_. How did you—?”

Steve mustered enough strength to move his left arm, nudging Mjolnir enough to cause her to tumble over and expose the green gem melded to her side. “The Time Stone. I got here before you and Clint did… watched and waited.” He felt it best to omit any mention of his ‘religious experience’ communing with the Soul Stone. “When the Soul Stone took you and went to Clint, I turned back the clock, stopped you from falling. Then I exchanged the Stone for you: a Soul for a soul.”

“Did Clint…?” she began, hesitant to continue.

“He’s home with his family… at least in my time. I, uh… I think there’s still ‘a’ Clint _here_ , actually. He said he hiked back to look for your body before he went back to the quantum realm, but you were gone.”

“Because I’m all the way up here, instead,” she reasoned, crawling to the edge of the platform and peering over before turning away with a shudder. “I can’t believe I actually _did_ that.”

“Don’t do it again,” Steve half-laughed, half-sobbed. “ _Please_.”

“ _No_ problem,” she promised, kneeling at his side. “Steve… is there anything I can do to help?”

His brain was slowly rebooting itself. “Um… the nanosuit. Deactivating it before my, uh, ‘Soul Stone _smash_ ’ moment there probably saved it from damage, but, it, uh… it has some first aid capabilities built in.”

“ _Mine_ doesn’t have that,” Natasha remarked, gently turning his hand over so she could access his quantum navigator.

“Yours was designed for only a single short trip through the quantum realm and back again,” he answered with a small smile, then hissed a little as the nanotech activated and applied new pressure to damaged skin as it covered him. “This one’s been upgraded for a longer mission.”

“You’re returning _all_ the Stones,” she realized. “Why?”

He flopped his left hand in a vague gesture. “Fate of the multiverse or something. Stones have to go back to their own realities or nasty things happen.” Curling his fingers into a loose fist, he tapped his thumb twice against the knuckle of his index finger, and the suit’s helmet formed around his head.

“Medical status,” he asked as the HUD flickered to life.

“First and second-degree burns on approximately thirty-six percent of your body,” Cebisa reported, displaying a diagram of a human body with a distressing amount of yellow, orange, and red covering most of the right half and the hand and lower arm flashing ominously. “Third- and fourth-degree burns to your right hand and forearm. Requesting permission to treat.”

“Granted.”

“Applying antiseptic nanite grafts to cover damaged skin and initiating deep tissue repairs, but your injuries go beyond the resources currently available. I recommend seeking out Wakandan medical services.”

“Wakanda is still a deeply isolationist nation in this time period,” he replied. “I’d be turned out immediately, if not killed outright.”

—

“Why’s that?”

Grampa Steve gave her a small, sad smile. “Wakanda hid their advanced technology from the world for centuries, surviving European colonialism in Africa by pretending to be a small, unimportant nation of farmers and goatherds with few natural resources and inhospitable terrain. Even at the height of the bloodiest global conflict the world had ever seen—World War II—the most interaction they had with the outside world was a single outreach by King Azzuri. 

“He met with your grandfather, Howard Stark, and presented him with a piece of ore, claiming it was all that remained of a small meteor strike. That vibranium was gifted to your grandfather with the promise that he’d use it only to make something to _save_ lives, and it eventually was used to make Captain America’s iconic shield.”

“Wouldn’t the Wakandans recognize Captain Steve, though?”

“Yes, but understand that King Azzuri’s generosity backfired on his people. After the war ended, they were forced to fight off several incursions by people, governments, corporations, and probably various evil organizations like HYDRA, all hoping to find more vibranium. The king cut off all ties with the outside world again. His elder son, King T’Chaka—T’Challa and Shuri’s father—continued those same isolationist policies all the way until his death about eight years ago, which is two years _after_ the time period Captain Steve and Natasha are in in the beta reality.”

—

Natasha’s worried face loomed over him again. “Steve?”

Activating external comms, he sighed. “Um… I might have done a bit more damage to myself than I first thought.”

“How bad is it?”

“Mostly first and second-degree burns, some third and fourth. The suit’s dealing with what it can, and I guess the serum will do the rest.”

“We should go back,” Natasha decided, reaching for her navigator.

Steve grabbed her wrist, halting her motion. “Don’t!” She raised an eyebrow in response, expecting clarification for his panicked reaction. “The timeline… I can’t mess around with my own past. You hit that recall now, you land back in _my_ past, changing it, and we both become reality-destroying time paradoxes.”

She rolled her eyes. “I was planning to sync to _your_ navigator.”

He shook his head. “Won’t work. The original platform got destroyed when the Thanos from _this_ timeline levelled the Compound.” He heaved another sigh. “It’s a long story. The point is, the new platform was designed by Doctors Pym and van Dyne, and they made quite a few changes to Tony’s code.”

“There’s a third option,” Cebisa said.

Steve blinked. “What?”

“What?” Natasha echoed, confused.

He gestured at his helmet. “Um… my suit’s AI just said there was a third option.”

“They really _did_ give you all the bells and whistles,” Natasha replied, lips quirking in a half-smile. “What’s the third option?”

“The backup recall sequence,” Cebisa answered, coding scrolling across his HUD next to the medical diagram.

Steve frowned. “Is it compatible with Natasha’s navigator?”

“It is.”

Something still wasn’t adding up. “Show me the recall’s timestamp and coordinates.” As the sequence’s destination flashed up on the screen, he let out a soft groan.

“Hey, talk to me Steve,” Natasha asked, cupping his helmet-covered cheek with her hand. “What’s the matter?”

“I’ve been trying to avoid accidentally creating a time paradox or loop,” he answered, “but it turns out I’ve been living in a small one anyway. _My_ yesterday, Shuri emailed me an ‘emergency recall sequence’ for the navigator, stating that I should use it only if I was somehow unable to home in on the new platform’s return beacon. It’s dated for _two days ago_ , with an exit point in Wakanda. That means that once I give this to you, you’ll use it to go back to Wakanda two days ago, tell Shuri I need a backup exit point, and she writes a new copy of the code and sends it to me yesterday so that I’d have it in order to send you back to the day _before_ yesterday today.”

—

“I am _so_ confused.”

“Time travel will do that, Little Bug.”

—

Natasha blinked rapidly. “ _Wow_ ,” she managed. “I think my brain hurts now.”

“Yeah, mine too.” Glancing at the medical diagram, which now showed only orange where it had been red, and red where it had been flashing red, he groaned again and sat up. 

“Easy,” Natasha cautioned. 

“Just have to… get the Stone out.” Reaching forward with his uninjured hand, he pressed his fingertips to the glowing green gem. “Store Time Stone,” he ordered when it came free, then wrapped his hand around Mjolnir’s handle.

Now that she was no longer working to contain and control the Infinity Stone’s power, Mjolnir was again able to lend him her full strength, and the sudden surge put his natural healing abilities into overdrive. It _hurt_ , but he took that as a good sign: any lingering shock was wearing off and damaged nerves were repairing themselves. Turning Mjolnir on end, he used the handle as leverage, pushing himself up off the ground, then carrying her with him as he rose.

Natasha let out a small laugh, standing up to help support him. “You dirty, rotten liar.”

“What?”

“Oh, just thinking of that time at Stark’s, before Ultron crashed the party... I thought I saw you move the hammer then, but you acted like you didn’t.”

“I didn’t,” he insisted. “I bumped the coffee table a little, but Mjolnir didn’t budge.”

She gave him a look _steeped_ in skepticism. “Uh- _huh_. And could the coffee table _be_ moved while Mjolnir was sitting on it?” 

He hung his head. “Point taken.” Feeling stronger already, he straightened his back, taking his weight off of Natasha. “But I’m only borrowing her; she belongs to the Thor from her timeline.”

Natasha stepped away, arms outstretched to catch him if needed. “How’s the hand?”

He still lacked sensation, but he was able to successfully wiggle his fingers. “Getting there.”

She whistled. “That’s fast, even for you.”

“Mjolnir is helping, believe it or not.”

“Oh, I believe it,” she said. “But isn’t your shield gonna be jealous that you’re cheating on it with a magical hammer?”

“Ha ha,” he answered, then shook his head. “I’ll tell you more of what happened while you were ‘away’, but not here.” He jerked his head to the side, indicating the Soul Wraith silently seething at them from the base of the monument’s columns. “Can’t say I care for the audience.”

Natasha nodded. “Is that _really_ …?”

“Johann Schmidt, the Red Skull? Yeah, or at least what’s left of him. He’s stuck as long as the Soul Stone remains here, so he’s not going anywhere _any_ time soon.”

“Others will come,” Schmidt answered, speaking for the first time since being re-bound to the Soul Stone’s service. “They will _always_ come. Eventually, someone will succeed, and I will be free to return to Earth and take what is rightfully mine.”

Steve felt his blood boil; all of Schmidt’s seeming acceptance that his own hubris had trapped him had been torn away with that tiny taste of freedom, revealing he was still who he’d always been: a power-hungry megalomaniac with no empathy for others. “ _Nothing_ is yours,” he snapped, “and no one is ever coming here again because there’s no one left alive in this reality who knows about this place. And… okay, accidents _could_ happen.” He placed his damaged hand against Mjolnir’s side. “Cebisa, Reality Stone.”

“What are you doing?” Natasha asked, eyeing the hammer warily as it suddenly glowed red.

“Making sure no one can ever again pay the price for the Soul Stone,” he answered, grimacing a little as Mjolnir’s healing assistance abruptly cut off.

“No, I meant should you be doing—” she waved vaguely “—whatever you’re planning with that Stone while you’re already injured?”

“ _This_ —” he lifted his right arm to indicate his damaged hand, ignoring the twinge of pain as burned skin protested the movement “—happened because I smashed an Infinity Stone with what amounted to a bare hand, which, I realize, was one of my worst plans ever. Mjolnir can channel an Infinity Stone safely as long as I don’t over-do it.”

Natasha frowned, but gave him a sweeping “go ahead” gesture. “Don’t over-do it,” she cautioned.

He tightened his grip on Mjolnir’s handle. “Cebisa, can you detect Clint’s quantum navigator?”

“Negative, Captain; Mister Barton re-entered the quantum realm approximately seven minutes ago.”

“Okay.” He inhaled slowly and deeply, then blew it out in a quick, audible gust. “Okay, grab onto me and don’t let go.” When Natasha had tucked herself into his wounded side, arm loose around his waist, he raised Mjolnir, closing his eyes and letting an image form in his mind.

“This changes _nothing_ , Captain! There is nothing you can do that—” Schmidt’s voice rose in pitch even as it faded away. Wind began to rush past, as cold air gave way to slightly warmer air. Opening his eyes, he saw that what he’d envisioned was coming true. Natasha shifted her grip to loop her arms around his neck as he “threw” Mjolnir, lifting the two of them away from the platform and back to safety on the ground now only a few dozen feet below them. 

Steve smiled in satisfaction as the former mountain continued to shrink until the tops of the monument’s columns were only about an inch off the ground. If he looked closely, he could probably spot the tiny black speck that was the Soul Wraith, no doubt ranting angrily to an audience who couldn’t possibly hear him. “It’s gonna be pretty hard for anyone to be thrown to their death from _that_ height.”

—

Morgan spread her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart, eyeing the distance critically. “I don’t think even an _ant_ would be hurt by that fall.”

Grampa Steve nodded. “Someone my age could probably break a hip, though.”

—

Natasha kicked the toe of her boot against the ground, covering the miniaturized mountain in a wave of sand. “Whoops,” she said with an amused tilt to her mouth. “Where to now, Steve? Have you returned the Power Stone yet?”

Steve stowed the Reality Stone, grateful again for the rush of strength from Mjolnir. “Just came from there,” he answered. “It’s now on its way to Xandar with Quill, who I suppose is about to have a run-in with a mouthy raccoon and his very verbose tree friend.”

She smiled, but then shook her head. “Is there any point in me trying to convince you to let me go with you to wherever you’re headed next?”

“No, but you’d be in good company trying to volunteer.”

She smirked. “Barnes and Wilson?”

“Last night and this morning, respectively,” he answered with a smile.

“So we got _everybody_ back?”

“Everyone who was killed by Thanos’ snap, yes.” He then explained Nebula’s capture and replacement by her doppelgänger from this reality, then the subsequent destruction of the Avengers Compound and battle which ensued. He ended by telling her about Tony’s sacrifice and the inception of his present mission.

By the time he was finished, his HUD showed that the majority of the burns to his face, torso, and upper arm had vanished, but both the diagram and his own efforts to move his right hand proved it was still far from healed.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you in two days, then,” Natasha said, tapping her navigator to activate her nanosuit. “Could be sooner, though, if I can convince Shuri to give me an upgraded suit like yours. You’d never know I was there.”

“You’re sneaky enough without an invisible suit,” Steve chuckled. “Besides, I think I’ll join you in Wakanda. I’m planning to pass the shield on to Wilson when I get back, but I could use an _actual_ shield to give him. And if we time the return to the Compound right, the guys won’t have too much time to panic about me missing the return window.” Accessing the alternate recall code again, he had Cebisa to copy it to Natasha’s navigator, then sync their current positions so that they wouldn’t land on top of one another when they arrived.

Natasha looked up from her navigator when finished, then impulsively stepped forward to give him a hug. “Be careful out there. If you don’t arrive the same time I do, I will _hunt you down_ , Rogers.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he laughed. “And Natasha? See you in a minute.”

Natasha deployed her helmet, which covered her answering smile, but he could see it in her eyes. She didn’t say anything else, though, just tapped her navigator again and vanished into the quantum realm.

“Two down,” he said aloud to the barren wasteland, “four to go.”

*       *       *

As Grampa Steve finished, Morgan frowned down at her hands in her lap. “Did Captain Steve have to get a robot arm like Uncle Bucky’s?”

“No, but Uncle Bucky’s robot arm _is_ pretty cool, isn’t it?”

“Yeah! I want one!”

Grampa Steve tilted his head, smiling at her. “You’d look pretty silly with _three_ arms, Little Bug.”

That wasn’t at _all_ what she meant, but the image was now in Morgan’s head and she couldn’t hold back a giggle.

Grampa Steve put his finger to his lips, putting the cockpit headset back on. As he talked to the control tower at the Eastern Iowa Airport, Morgan could feel the flutter in her tummy that meant a drop in altitude: Miss Friday was taking them to a lower airway for the last leg of the trip, which meant they were _almost_ there.

“Fifteen minutes,” Grampa Steve said, as though he could read her mind. “It’s not enough time to start into the next part of _Captain Steve’s Adventures_ , but you were awfully quiet in that last bit. Was there something you didn’t understand? Was the time travel stuff too confusing?”

Morgan shook her head. “I understood it, I guess, but…”

“But...?”

She inhaled slowly and then released the breath in a sudden puff. “These aren’t just _stories_ , are they Grampa Steve? The part about Daddy saving the world, _that’s_ real, and I kinda think everything else might be, too.”

He smiled. “Right you are, Little Bug. It’s maybe not _exactly_ what happened—the part where I censored Uncle Peter’s potty mouth, for example—but it’s close enough.”

“Was Auntie Nat _actually_ dead?” she blurted.

Grampa Steve nodded, his smile fading. “She was.”

“But Captain Steve brought her back?”

“He did, with the help of both the Time Stone and the Soul Stone.”

“Oh.” Morgan sighed. “But he couldn’t bring Daddy back, could he?”

There was a soft click of a seatbelt, then Grampa Steve was wrapping his arms around her. “He wanted to, but he _couldn’t_ : he didn’t have a choice. I’m sorry, Morgan.”

“S’okay,” she answered into his shoulder, her voice having turned all wobbly and weird. “I’m not mad at Captain Steve, Grampa. I’m glad he _could_ save Auntie Nat: she’s one of my favorite aunts.”

“She’s one of my favorite people, too,” he agreed, loosening his hug and rocking back on his heels. “Even if she _does_ like to call me ‘fossil’ and ‘Steve-osaurus’.”

Morgan swiped at her itchy eyes and giggled. “‘Steve-osaurus’. I _love_ that! She calls me ‘laseeka’ but I don’t know what that means.”

“ _Lee-seech-ka_ ,” Grampa Steve corrected, pushing off of the console to stand before backing into the pilot’s chair once again. “It’s Russian and means ‘little fox’.”

She scrunched up her nose. “Why? I don’t have red hair like hers or Mommy’s.”

“Not all foxes are red, but more importantly, in folklore, foxes are associated with _cleverness_.”

“Really?”

He chuckled. “That and playing tricks on people, which of course you would _never_ do.”

Morgan attempted to put forth her best innocent expression. “Oh, never!” Grampa Steve laughed and she was helpless to resist joining him.

“Hey Grampa?”

“Yeah?”

“Why do you call me little _bug?_ ”

“Oh look: we’re here!” he said instead of answering. “Good thing, too: I’m getting hungry.” The pitch of the Starkjet’s engines changed as they switched from flight to hover mode, and the jet began to rapidly descend. 

“We have arrived,” Miss Friday confirmed as a soft bump signalled they’d touched down. “Boss Lady left the office in her suit two minutes ago and should be here in approximately thirty-six minutes.”

“All right!” Morgan fumbled with her lap belt, managing to get it open just before Grampa Steve reached out to help. 

They exited the cabin ramp to find a pair of familiar figures jogging across the meadow toward them. “Hey, you kids get off-a my lawn!” the taller one yelled.

Morgan laughed because Uncle Clint said the same thing _every time_ , and every time Grampa Steve mocked him for it by shaking his cane in the air while wearing an exaggerated angry-face. 

“You can’t call it a lawn if you don’t mow it!” she protested.

Uncle Clint dropped his hands to his hips. “Excuse you, I mow it _twice a year_.”

Cooper rolled his eyes. “After Mom yells at him about how tall it’s getting.”

“It’s a hay field: it’s supposed to get tall!”

“Not taller than Nate, Dad! It’s not like you have to use a little push-mower, just the tractor. It’s not that hard!”

Grampa Steve chuckled. “Careful, there Coop…”

The teen’s eyes darted sideways, taking in the sudden wicked grin that crossed his dad’s face. “Uh-oh.”

Uncle Clint slung his arm around his son’s shoulders. “You did say you wanted to learn how to _drive_ …”

“Uncle Steve, save me!” Cooper called out dramatically as they moved away toward the barn.

“I’m retired!” Grampa Steve yelled back.

“Hey, has anyone carbon-dated you recently?” another voice responded, having just stepped out onto the porch of the Barton house.

Morgan raced ahead, arms outstretched. “Auntie Nat!”

“Лисичка!” Auntie Nat exclaimed, crouching down to receive and return the hug.

“Grampa Steve told me a story about you on the way over!”

Auntie Nat gasped in mock horror. “Not a word of it’s true! Unless he made me sound really awesome, in which case I will _absolutely_ take credit for it.”

Grampa Steve smiled and shrugged, planting his cane in front of him and resting both hands on the leather-wrapped handle. “I’ve been telling her _Captain Steve’s Adventures Through the Multiverse_. Today’s episode was That-Place-We-Can’t-Name-Near-Anyone-Named-Barton.”

The redhead grimaced. “Not my favorite.” She quickly changed the subject. “Hey, kiddo, want me to braid your hair like mine?”

Morgan nodded eagerly, letting Auntie Nat guide her over to the porch swing.

She had her fingers deep in Morgan’s thick hair when she asked, “Pepper couldn’t make it?”

“She had to spend a few hours terrorizing some paper-pushers,” Grampa Steve answered, following them up onto the porch, “but she’s on her way in the suit. She gave us an ultimatum to ensure there were buttermilk biscuits available when she arrived.”

Auntie Nat gave a mocking salute before returning her hand back to her braiding. “Morgan and I are on biscuit-guarding duty, got it! Fortunately, Bucky, Sam, and Rhodey are all running late, too.”

“Is that Steve?” called a voice from the other side of the screen door.

“And me, Aunt Laura!”

“Hi, Morgan!” Aunt Laura answered, still inside the house. “Steve, if you’re willing, Wanda and I could use some help cutting up fruit.”

“She won’t let _me_ help,” Auntie Nat added sulkily.

“Because you and Lila won’t stop throwing the knives!” Aunt Laura shouted back.

“How else are we to see if they’re well-balanced?”

“ _You’re_ not well-balanced!”

Grampa Steve laughed at Morgan’s aunts as he opened the screen door. “Coming, Laura!”

“I’m going to tell you a secret,” Auntie Nat whispered, “I hate cutting up fruit.”

Morgan giggled. “You’re so sneaky, Auntie Nat.”

“It’s part of my charm,’ she joked. “Hey, did I ever tell you about the first time I met your parents and your Uncle Happy? I was _really_ sneaky then: working undercover at SI as a legal intern named Natalie Rushman...”

Morgan sighed, letting Auntie Nat’s smoky voice wash over her. The first time _she_ met Auntie Nat was just over a year ago, but she’d been too shy to say anything to the strangers who were arguing with Daddy on the porch of the lake house. Thankfully, she’d since gotten to know Auntie Nat and Uncle Scott, and was learning about Captain Steve from Grampa Steve.

Her aunts and uncles and Grampa Steve weren’t the family she’d have chosen—she’d rather have Daddy back—but maybe Mommy’s rule about appreciating what you had applied to families, too.


End file.
